


after the fire

by jan



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-07 23:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5475023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jan/pseuds/jan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a king walks into a bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	after the fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meguri_aite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meguri_aite/gifts).



> h-happy yuletide! this is set shortly after S1, before Missing Kings, and kind of contradicts S2x10 out of necessity, whoops..............
> 
> also i'm so sorry but this is only izumo/reisi if "/" indicates two characters briefly existing in the same general area and vaguely interacting *helpless gesturing*

A king walks into a bar, and really, isn't that enough of a punchline? It should be easy to stop there, to refuse to go further. A king walks into a bar, which is a kingdom, which has lost its king. A king walks into a kingdom after killing its ruler. An old story. A king kills a king and there's nothing to be gained.

Munakata Reisi stands in the doorway. Not hesitating; nothing that tentative. Just waiting, perhaps. Being polite.

"Welcome," Izumo says. What else can he do?

It's lucky that no one else is around, he thinks, as Munakata takes a seat at the bar. Or maybe something more deliberate than luck, knowing Scepter 4 and its resources. Still, Munakata's in civilian clothes, which means this isn't an official visit, which means --

Izumo thinks he would have preferred the official visit. There's a softness in the Blue King's expression that no one should have to confront, and he's suddenly glad that Seri can't see her king like this.

Munakata draws a pack of cigarettes from his coat. _That's the wrong brand_ , Izumo wants to say. But Bar Homra has standards to uphold, and so he finds his lighter, offers it up, and Munakata leans in to accept the flame.

He doesn't expect that gesture to be what finally prompts Munakata to speak.

"A lighter, hm?" Munakata makes a dry sound that might have been a laugh. "I almost expected..."

Izumo feels anger flare hot and sudden at his fingertips -- takes a second too long to smother the response, tuck it away with a polite smile. Did the Blue King think that lighting his cigarette was something worth using this power for? That this power--

No. He sets aside the euphemism, lets himself think it: _Mikoto's_ power.

Except it isn't, now.

"A lighter's more reliable," he says at last, which is not a lie. He takes an ashtray out from behind the bar.

Munakata takes a slow drag of his cigarette. It looks difficult for reasons that have nothing to do with habit, and some bitter, petty part of Izumo is glad. The rest of him is just tired. "What'll you have?" he asks, keeping up the farce, the idea that Munakata's here in search of something other than a ghost.

Munakata looks up, distracted. But he plays along, scanning the shelves and naming an appropriately top-range whiskey.

Izumo's hands are perfectly steady as he pours out the measure. Years of practice -- and no, he won't think about them, won't think about why this is familiar.

Except he does, of course. A line from _before_ echoes in his memory, and hysteria's edge presses sudden against his throat. When has he ever done anything other than cling to the past? What else can he do, now, when everything is a reminder? They'd made this place their own, the three of them: the paperwork, the rescued strays, the scrubbed floors and newly-varnished wood. The building of a kingdom, tiny and fragile but _theirs_.

Until it wasn't, because Izumo's the only one of them left. And now the Blue King comes here to mourn as if he has a right to do so, as if this isn't the deepest form of trespassing, as if he had no part in creating this echoing emptiness.

But Izumo's never been good at anger, and the feeling burns itself out to ashes. He sets the glass of whiskey before Munakata, watches those slim fingers curl around it.

There were times, before, when Izumo let himself believe in something other than an inevitable end; told himself that Totsuka's smile or Anna's small hands would be enough to keep their king whole, to do what Izumo never managed. Yet even then he knew better, knew that everything was set in motion years ago, when the slate reached out with its promise of ruin. Or years before that. He remembers a boy who had always been burning, who flung himself headlong into the world in search of destruction -- his own or the world's, it didn't matter.

Well. It came down to one of those two, in the end.

The ice barely shifts in Munakata's glass when he sets it back down. Izumo looks at the Blue King, all cold order and self-control, even now, even with that crooked half-smile on his face. A crack in a shimmering blade. There's no one to blame.

 

 

Someone else might have found a metaphor here, named this taste as regret: the familiar bitterness on one's tongue, the burning at the back of one's throat. Reisi has no need for metaphors. Does it still count as irrationality, he wonders, if he knows full well how irrational he is being? He tries to picture it: the scruffy Homra boys lined up at the bar, Kusanagi's indulgent smile. The jukebox playing, perhaps. And on the couch -- of course -- Suoh, surveying his kingdom.

It doesn't quite work. He takes another sip of whiskey, appreciates the sting. Hard to imagine Suoh, with that nihilistic grin, those dead eyes, being part of such domestic camaraderie. Kings stand apart, by definition and necessity; having clansmen means never being on the same level as them.

But then he considers Kusanagi, whose polite smile hides nothing, and no -- perhaps some kings are better suited to the role than others. Reisi's been a leader for as long as he's known, wears responsibility like a tailored uniform. Suoh, surely, has always been an unchained force.

 _Had_ always been.

Reisi takes another slow drag, straight down, savours the burn in his throat. Breathes out and wonders what it means to burn. Kusanagi's staring, trying not to seem like he's staring, and on a whim Reisi taps another cigarette out of the pack and tilts it towards the other man.

Kusanagi pauses, expression unreadable. Then the smile reappears. "Thanks."

The lighter again. Kusanagi raises the cigarette to his lips, and something in the line of his shoulders relaxes even before he breathes in. Reisi supposes they have very different memories of the act. Smoke curls in the empty air, twin trails of grey, and this isn't familiar but it's close enough.

"He knew you'd be able to do it," Kusanagi says abruptly, means _to do it and come out unscathed, unshaken, to end it all and survive._ Not words of comfort. An exhortation: _Don't let him down._

 _I'm not here today as the Blue King_ , Reisi almost replies. But he recognises the inaccuracy even as he thinks it. He can leave the uniform behind, put down the sword, yet his kingship lies always under his skin; the blade of his cause close to his heart. To be a king is to be both more and less than human.

"I suppose he was capable of being correct about some things," Reisi says instead.

It catches Kusanagi off-guard enough to make him choke on his cigarette. When he's done coughing, there's a bitter curl to the corner of his smile, the closest he's come to sincerity.

Reisi meets his gaze. Smiles back. A readied blade, an exchange of lies; a recognition of nothing in common, nothing at all.


End file.
